TO THE LIGHTHOUSE
anger rising in her, never gave; that man took. ""
She, on the other hand, would be forced to give.
^rS: ^7 had g^en. Giving, giving, giving,
she had died-and had left all this. Really, she
was angry with Mrs. Ramsay. With the brush
slightly trembling in her fingers she looked at
the hedge, the step, the wall. It was all Mrs.
Ramsay's doing. She was dead. Here was Lily,
at forty-four, wasting her time, unable to do a
thing, standing there, playing at painting, playing
at the one thing one did not play at, and it was
all Mrs. Ramsay's fault. She was dead. The
step where she used to sit was empty. She was
But why repeat this over and over again? Why
be always trying to bring up some feeling she
had not got? There was a kind of blasphemy
in it. It was all drv. all withered. all spent.
They ought not to have asked her; she ought
not to have come. One can't waste one's time
at forty-four, she thought. She hated playing
at painting. A brush, the one dependable thing
in a world of strife, ruin, chaos—that one should
not play with, knowingly even: she detested it.
But he made her. You shan't touch your canvas,
he seemed to say, bearing down on her, till you've
given me what I want of you. Here he was,*"
close upon her again, greedy, distraught. Well,,